I recently moved to a leafy upscale suburb, and within a few days, I had met all of my neighbors. It doesn’t work like that in New York.

I lived for a decade in the West Village of Manhattan, and while my neighbors were cordial — we’d grunt hello to each other along 11th Street — we never went out of our way to be neighborly. We’d complain together about the city’s unfathomable and pointless recycling program as we stuffed garbage bags into the wooden bins or share a sour look at a person driving too fast down the street. But we wouldn’t make a serious effort to connect with each other. That’s part of the New Yorker’s survival code: If you keep your neighbors at arm’s length, you’ll never have to lend them anything or remember their names or listen to any of their irritating political opinions. If only you could do the same with family.